Consequences Read Online Free PDF Page B

in Ursa's
mane, and whispered again to the unknown presence in the room, I
listened carefully and heard. “I’m sorry, Lune.” In response, Lune
crawled on his stomach, over to stick his nose under Christopher’s
chin.
    Then, as if this small spell has been broken,
Christopher sits up and scratches Ursa’s head, while Lune moves
another limp body over to the corner.
    We sit silently for some time before
Christopher finally gets up and brings Ursa a bowl of water. Then
without saying a word, he picks up the bodies from the corner and
walks outside, leaving me alone with Ursa and Lune. The great husky
comes to sit right in front of me, and cocking his head, he asks to
be scratched by moaning quietly under his pant.
    I run my fingers through the rabbit-soft fur
behind his ears, “I’m sorry, Lune. I’m sorry, Ursa.” I’ve talked to
animals before, but never because I knew they understood me, or all
the sentiment attached to my words. Lune lies down with a heavy
harrumph, and puts his head in my lap, where I can absentmindedly
continue to rub his neck.
    Our trance is broken when Christopher comes
back in, about fifteen minutes later. Walking into the kitchen, he
speaks with a heaviness that, in anyone else, would hint towards
crying. His hands are covered in dirt, and although his face holds
very little emotion, I can see he is mournful. “She says, she
thinks there are two more. But she doesn’t have the heart to touch
their minds to see if they are alive.”
    “What were you doing outside?”
    “I asked Ursa if the pups had names. She told
me that they don’t name the dead, and asked if I would bury the
small ones … so they could return to their rightful place in
nature.” I can almost hear bitterness in his cold answer, but I
think better of it … cold, yes, but bitter … never. Listening
closely to his tone, I make note that he seems as detached as
nature itself, incapable of sentimentality.
    I take pride in my ability to read people,
and use that knowledge daily in my work … but Christopher is a
different creature altogether. Like his ability to hide his tracks
if he doesn't want to be found, he can conceal his emotions where
no one can see ... except for, maybe, his Ellie.
    He stares back at my scrutiny, and simply
states, “Ursa says she’s in pain again … the next one is
coming.”
    As we take up our positions, I have to ask,
“You keep saying Ursa ‘says’… so, she speaks? Would that be in
English, or do you speak wolf?” The absurdity of the question
brings a smile to my face, and in return Christopher starts to
laugh. It is one of those moments that happens much too often in
life … laughing at the wrong time over decidedly sober situations.
A much needed break, because as soon as we stop, Ursa starts
whimpering again.
    The next pup comes quickly; it is so small,
holding it up and comparing it to its mother, I wonder how such
small animals can become such massive beasts. When it rolls in my
fingers and squeaks, I quickly clean around her muzzle and we all
breathe a sigh of relief … I don’t think any of us realized we were
holding our breath.
    Laying the pup down where Ursa can check it
out and clean it up, I turn in just enough time to see the last pup
fall with a soft thump. I clean him up and notice his breathing is
labored … but at least he is breathing. Counting each placenta, I
know we just need to wait for Ursa to pass the last sack; in the
meantime the two surviving pups begin to root around and nurse.
Survival rears its miraculous head as I watch instinct take hold of
the babies.
    Ursa finishes cleaning up her little ones,
and keeps prodding the bigger pup, the male, to eat. His skin is
black and brown with a white diamond on his forehead, barely
visible under his fine coat. His sister, the runt, squeaks and
squeals as she noses around for milk, but her brother just keeps
becoming more and more lethargic. Ursa starts licking more roughly;
she is instinctively trying to